The Problem with Sherlock
by Keplaz
Summary: Sherlock has to solve the case of a missing painting which evolves into the search for a clever murderer. Sherlock also isn't feeling like himself after the Eurus incident and he has to try and work out why. First three chapters are pure mystery but the last one is Sherlolly. The last chapter can stand alone or as part of the whole. Contains spoilers from all of Season 4.
1. Chapter 1

The Problem with Sherlock/The Devious Twin

I have never had much interest in writing, at least not writing in the way John does. Nothing gives me more pleasure than writing a paper on the various types of cigarette ash or a journal on gunpowder after my many experiments. But this I had to chronicle myself. Not even John Watson has the capability, despite the many hours he has spent on his blog.

Redbeard changed everything. Where every memory of Musgrave had been a fog, what Eurus did opened my mind in ways that no drug ever has. In my darkest dreams I see him; standing knee deep in water that keeps on rising. His shock of red hair bobbing along as he shivers in the cold air. He yells out but no one can hear him, alone and frightened, helpless as little by little the water rises. His voice is hoarse. And then it becomes no voice at all. Just an open mouth and cheeks that are streaked with tears. Victor Trevor drowns and I wake up drenched in sweat, barely breathing. In every dream I have, I am Victor Trevor.

"Are you OK, Sherlock?" John asks, his brow furrowed with worry.

His blue grey eyes are bright and clear. His shirt crisp and unwrinkled.

"I'm fine, John," I say but even to myself I sound like I'm lying.

"Were you having that dream again?" he asks.

"I thought Molly was on duty tonight," I say.

"She is, tonight. But it's not night yet, Sherlock it's only four in the afternoon. You drifted off again."

I lift up my head. I am not in bed. Instead I am sitting at the desk in front of John's laptop.

"I can't have…" I start to say.

"You have to see someone Sherlock, it's getting worse. And without any help too."

We both know what he means, he doesn't need to spell it out. My system is absolutely clean I haven't touched the stuff since Mary died. But something worse than that is destroying me from within. I am dying, just like poor Victor Trevor but unlike him, I fear it is only my mind that is perishing.

Mrs Hudson appears at the door, flanked by Greg Lestrade. Even though the door is open she knocks and announces him.

She is carrying Rosie in her arms. Rosie lets out a cough which sounds like a harsh bark. John has been worried about her lately. He has started smoking again even though he thinks no one knows. There is light ash on his collar and his breath now smells permanently like the peppermint gum he is always chewing. I decided not to tell him that I know. Everyone deserves to have their little secrets and as long as his habit never grows beyond his current five a day, I will never tell him.

"Priceless." Lestrade says, finishing off a sentence I hadn't heard him start.

"What?" I say.

"He never listens," John says to Lestrade, "I just thought it only happened to me."

"Lord Grayson's painting. It was a rare Vemeer. It's still missing. Remember the case we are working on."

"Find out if the butler painted his own room," I say to him.

John shakes his head as he crosses the very messy floor and walks towards Mrs Hudson. Rosie stretches out her arms.

"He isn't eating you know," he says to Mrs Hudson.

"Or sleeping. Apart from nodding off at odd times, I don't think he's slept in nearly a month," Mrs Hudson adds, "Are you sure he isn't using again?"

"Positive. Molly and I have been taking it in turns to watch him. Clean as a whistle. Molly has been testing his pee."

Lestrade clears his throat.

"If you are not well, I will come another time," he says.

"Find out if the butler painted his own room and all the other servants," I say firmly.

The case is beginning to make sense to me. It has been a whole day and I'm surprised how long it has taken me to figure out. Something is wrong with me. My mouth is almost always dry and my stomach feels as if I've been punched. Always at night.

"I will get the information for you. Anything else?"

"Get the butler's DNA as well. Finger prints will not do this time. Get all the servants DNA to make sure no one gets suspicious."

Lestrade looks like he wants to argue but he keeps his mouth shut. His face has gone bright red.

"Lord Grayson is going broke, you know," Mrs Hudson intones, "It's in all the tabloids. Maybe he stole the painting himself for insurance."

"He has an art thief living in his house," John says.

Lestrade shakes his head.

"Just because he looks like Lenny Thaites doesn't make him a thief we checked the butler's fingerprints already. Lenny has been in prison for three years since Mr Holmes caught him. He isn't due out for another week."

"Twins then," John says, with a smile on his face.

I say nothing. How many times do I need to tell him it's never twins?

My silence doesn't put him off.

"Wasn't the butler just hired, like a month ago. Everyone else has been there for at least three years. I'm telling you, the butler did it."

I roll my eyes and this time I can't keep quiet.

"This isn't Cluedo, Watson," I say.

"I'm surprised you even know what that is," he quips back.

The case unravelled as follows:


	2. Chapter 2

Watson and I had visited the scene of the crime yesterday. The house was a modern mansion in Chelsea. It was a large whitewashed building with gothic fixtures and a stone fountain in the gardens. Where once London had been populated by history, money had changed the landscape and covered it with more modern tastes. Gone were the lavish Victorian houses or the Edwardian estates. This was a different generation. We pulled up to the solid iron gate. The driver of the black cab whistled as he approached the intercom.

"Mr Sherlock Holmes, here by appointment," he said as a voice enquired as to who we were.

The gates slid open mechanically. I looked around as we drove through. Thick walls at least five metres high surrounded the whole property. CCTV cameras peered from every corner and there was the dull glow of an alarm near the front door. A warning.

"That's a lot of security," Watson said as we stepped out of the taxi.

"You are very observant, Watson," I said to him.

He grinned.

"I try to be useful," he said.

"Can you feel that?" I asked as we stepped along the cobblestoned path.

"Feel what?"

"The ground. It dips very slightly when you walk along it. I wonder why anyone would need this much security," I said.

"Pressure pads," Watson added, "The second anyone walks anywhere on these grounds at night it will trigger a silent alarm."

A woman stood on the patio framed by a door made of solid oak. She was about thirty-nine and she was worried about getting old. She lived alone and hated animals. Most animals, she had a goldfish, actually a few goldfish and she hated waste. I wanted to tell Watson my observations but recently, the joy my revelations to him used to bring was gone.

"Welcome, Mr Holmes. And you must be Dr Watson. Inspector Lestrade told us to expect you," she said. Her voice was soft, almost like that of a child and she enunciated every last letter, like someone who had taken elocution lessons.

Watson would have told you at this stage that she had striking hazel eyes with flecks of green. Her hair was silky, shoulder length and inky black. She had lines around her generous mouth, like someone who laughed a lot. Her body was slender and toned, like a marathon runner but with ample curves in the places they are supposed to be, which were bulging in her tight black dress. I, however, am not Watson and only note these minor points to keep this blog consistent. He is always preoccupied with the mundane and unimportant details, is Watson, and usually he misses the most important facts even if they are right before his eyes.

She ushered us through the door and I'm sure that if Mary hadn't only just died, Watson would have been after her mobile number.

"It's rude to stare," I mumbled to him as we trailed behind her.

"My name is Lucy Thompson. I am Lord Grayson's private secretary. He will meet you in the study," she said.

Lord Grayson was not what one typically expects a member of the peerage to look like. He was young for one, not older than twenty-five, and with the body of a professional athlete and I say this with great regret, the eyes of a gambler, and a poor one at that. He had the tell-tale tremor of an alcoholic and his otherwise bronze skin was tinged scarlet just below his prominent cheekbones.

"No hat?" He said with a smile. The accent was pure Los Angeles.

"He never wears the hat," Watson said.

"Tell Jameson to bring our guests some tea, Lucy," he said, ushering her out of the room, "We are not to be disturbed."

His voice, despite his youth, boomed with authority and he did not look lost in an office that belonged to someone much older. There were bookshelves lined with volumes of varying ages. The desk, behind which our host took a seat, was an antique but still sturdy and it was at a very awkward angle, upsetting the symmetry of the room. The lighting was all artificial, there were no windows at all and the desk had been moved not long ago, judging by the floor and its unnatural positioning. It sat in the darkest corner.

"I'm only here about the painting," I said, "I am not a bodyguard. Judging by your defences any way, your enemy would need to be very formidable to get anywhere near you."

Watson glanced at me and allowed himself a furtive smile. Our host was not nearly so gracious. He roared as he rose out of his seat, his fists balled. His face had darkened even more and I could sense violence emanating from him.

"How…" he bellowed.

"The desk," I said, "You moved it to face the door. It used to be back there directly underneath the lamp. You are expecting someone. Someone you want to see coming."

"I told you it's not as impressive when you explain it," Watson whispered.

My explanation seemed to be enough for our host, who seemed to regain his earlier composure as a quiet knock came from the door.

"Come in, Jameson," Lord Grayson shouted.

Watson is not the most composed man under normal circumstances, he nearly fell in his chair when he saw the butler.

"Sherlock," he started to say.

"Not him. Look at the eyes. And he's too short," I said.

The butler had jet black hair, a round face with no edges at all and a sharp nose that made him look like a rodent. The eyes were closer together than Lenny Thaites' and I could see how after a cursory glance, Watson would make that mistake.

The butler poured tea for us, spilling Watson's tea into the saucer before apologising and leaving the room.

Watson was still watching him with suspicion.

"Sorry about the tea. I would like to have offered you something stronger but I'm in the middle of a detox program," Lord Grayson said.

"I don't mean to be rude," I said, "But the painting…"

"Very well," Lord Grayson said folding his large hands across his lap, "The painting."

"I won't bore you with the history of how it came to my possession. The painting is absolutely priceless. My family's finances took a hit recently. I won't go into detail but without it, I am dead. That painting was my future," he took a deep breath and continued, "I kept it locked in a room with a titanium door. No one has access to that room apart from me. I keep the key around my neck at all times except for showers or when I sleep and even then I lock it in a safe. I went to check on the painting this morning and it wasn't there, Mr Holmes. Gone. As if it disappeared into thin air."

He seemed to have shrunk as he told the story, now he looked broken.

"And there are renovations happening upstairs?" I asked.

"Yes, all the bedrooms are being redecorated. This place is a little old fashioned for me. I've only just become Lord Grayson; I've been managing my father's businesses in America."

"Any new employees, do you trust them?" Watson asked.

He paused to think.

"Only Jameson but Lucy thoroughly vetted him before he was hired."

"What happened to the last butler?" I asked.

"He is in hospital. Someone coshed him very badly around the head. I was very fond of old Collington; he was the butler when I was a boy."

I rose up.

"Our work is done here, Watson. Lord Grayson, I will be in touch."

"But don't you need to see the room where it disappeared?"

"There's nothing more to see here. What interest would I have in an empty room?"

I could tell by his face that he was not happy with my response but it was important that we leave straight away. There was more work to be done.


	3. Chapter 3

"I followed your lead, Sherlock," Lestrade says, "We've arrested the butler."

It is now evening and something about the case has been troubling me and only now do I understand everything. How could I have been so dim?

"You idiot!" I shout.

John is bouncing Rosie on his leg.

"I told you," he says, "It was the butler."

"We have to go immediately," I say jumping to my feet.

"We found the painting in the wallpaper in the butler's room, just like you said. I found out if he'd decorated his own room and then I joined the dots just like you knew I would. The painting was there Sherlock, Lord Grayson confirmed it."

"I bet he's related to Lenny Thaites, who coincidentally has been out of prison since yesterday," Watson says, "I checked."

"There's not a moment to lose, Lestrade, because of your initiative, you may have let a murderer free."

"Murderer? What are you talking about, Sherlock?" Watson asks.

"Colington, the old butler, died an hour ago. I've also done some checking. Hurry Lestrade," I say as I run out the door. I see John handing Rosie to Mrs Hudson. I barely register her tears. It can't be too late.

"We might still be on time, if we hurry."

"Where to?" Lestrade asks.

"To Chelsea of course. Where else?" I say.

I refuse to talk all the way there. Lestrade has the siren blazing.

"But we found the painting. He tried to feed us some story about being an actor but he has a criminal record. Fraud. We have our man, John," Lestrade says to Watson, "He's a recent hire. How much guiltier does he need to be?"

John Watson doesn't speak but in his silence I can hear the doubts. Have I finally lost it? Has the Eurus affair and the truth about Redbeard finally broken me? For the first time, I'm beginning to doubt myself too.

The iron gates are wide open as we arrive. There's a limousine in the driveway. I jump out of the car. We've just made it. Justice might still be served.

Lucy Thompson and Lord Grayson are in the car. They both step out. I suddenly feel cold. I pull up my coat higher, I don't know if I still have the stomach for this. I feel like I have some sort of bug. I never get ill but I can feel the butterflies in my belly. I just want to be home. I can't wait to see Molly Hooper and to hear Mrs Hudson chattering to Rosie. It's time for the truth.

"You nearly got away with it. Very nearly. Your plan was ingenious and thanks to Greg here, you very nearly made it."

Watson and Lestrade are looking at each other. The other police cars are just arriving. There can be no escape. I am never wrong but the death of Mary Watson has proved that I am not infallible. Mary would still be alive and Veronica Norbury would be in prison only for treason and not also for murder.

"You managed to get Colington out of the way so you could hire a new butler, one who had more than a passing resemblance to Lenny Thaites. The butler said he was an actor, I did my research, I know it's true. I had my suspicions after watching him pour, John's tea. No real butler ever spills a drop. If he wasn't really a butler, what was he doing here? Anyone who saw him would make the conclusion Watson made that they are related. If they dug deeper into him, they would find out he had a criminal record. He isn't related to Lenny Thaites as the DNA tests will prove once they get here. Someone else is related to Lenny. Someone who is responsible for hiring all the staff that work here. Isn't that right, Lucy Thompson, or to call you by your real name, Lucinda Thaites."

Lucy has lost colour, she sways on legs, like she's going to faint. John reaches her just in time and stops her from falling.

"Lucy?" Lord Grayson says, his mouth gaping open, "Lucy did this."

Greg Lestrade looks back at me and pats me on the back.

"No." I say, "Lucy didn't do any of this. Why would she hide the painting in the butler's room knowing it would be found? Why would she hire someone who looks like her brother after the lengths she has gone to hide her past? A devious mind is behind this. Lestrade, get your gun and point it at Lord Grayson. Lucy step away from him, John hold her please."

After Veronica Norbury, I will not take any more chances.

"Lucinda Thaites changed her name and her looks after Lenny was arrested. She found a job as your father's secretary. She was happy. When you arrived from America, you owed money to very dangerous people. I have friends in the Pinkertons. You are the one who turned this place into Fort Knox, all the changes in security were your idea. When I hinted at an enemy you thought, I had guessed, so violent was your reaction but you hid it well. You nudged Lucy towards Jameson, making sure she thought he was her choice. You made sure I saw the butler, so that like Watson, I would make the connection between him and Lenny Thaites, who you know I caught. You had DNA tests done on all your staff and you found out like we did that Lucinda was Lenny's sister. All the blame would fall on her. She hired her brother's doppelganger, stole the painting and framed him. No one would believe her to be innocent especially with Lenny out of prison. The timing was no coincidence, ever since you found out the truth about Lucy, you've been waiting for Lenny's release, he was key to this deception. You would eventually tell the police that the painting we found was a fake. They would assume that Lucy got it to her brother somehow and he sold it. You would get the insurance money."

"I suppose you can prove all of this Mr Holmes," he said folding his arms across his chest, "Why would I go to all this trouble."

"Because your painting is a fake, Lord Grayson. You sold the actual painting nearly a year ago to a Private Collector. Don't look so surprised I have many connections in the underworld too. You paid your debts, the Pinkertons' agent in L.A. confirmed that already. But the fear you showed yesterday proved to me that your addiction to gambling runs deep. You lost the money you made and now you owe some very dangerous people even more money. When you said that painting is your future, you were being quite literal. No one knew that you'd sold the original. All you needed was a fake and a very devious mind, and the insurance would pay out. The only problem was how to get rid of Colington. If you had sent him on a holiday somewhere and hired an actor, you may well have gotten away with it. Firing him after so many years of service would have been suspicious and I have an inkling he refused to take early retirement. Colington died today, Lord Grayson. And knowing the reach your enemies have, even in prison you will not be safe. I speak for the downtrodden. If not for the murder I may have fallen into the trap you had set for Lucy. Good day to you."

I turn away from him. Lucy is sobbing in John's arms. Greg claps a pair of handcuffs on Lord Grayson's wrists. Everything I said is verifiable, from hiring the actor to his many debts. He will not escape the law. I walk out of the gardens and hire a cab. John Watson might not be home tonight, he needs the comfort as much as Lucy does, and there's nowhere I'd rather be than 221B Baker Street.


	4. Chapter 4

"Sherlock, why is there a lily on the table?" Molly asks as she walks through the door.

She looks tired. There are bags under her light brown eyes. There's a light hint of lipstick on her lips but normally she doesn't bother.

"Where's John, and Mrs Hudson? Rosie isn't here either," she says sniffing at the lily.

"They aren't here, Molly, I sent them away," I say to her.

"Why, Sherlock," she asks, looking at the lily, smelling it, absent minded.

"You know why," I say to her.

This time she looks up at me. Her eyes are glinting dangerously.

"Don't make fun of me, Sherlock," she says, "We promised never to bring up that call."

"And I want to be able to sleep again, Molly Hooper," I say to her, "Every mind needs to refuel, even mine. I nearly let a murderer off today. I've not been myself since the Eurus incident."

"Because of Redbeard, not because of the call. Are you still dreaming of dying?"

I nod my head.

"Why should I be Victor Trevor in my dreams. I saved him already, in a way. By saving John, I saved Redbeard. My best friend. The dreams aren't about him."

"So what then Sherlock. You saved me as well. You are not having dreams about coffins with three words on them as well are you," she grins and flicks a wisp of hair back.

This is the confirmation I need.

"I am the one drowning, Molly, in emotions I can't pretend to understand. Since the phone call, I haven't been the same. I have butterflies in my stomach," I chuckle, "Me, Sherlock Holmes. Butterflies! I can't eat, I can't sleep and I can't stop thinking of how I nearly lost you. I would have said anything that night to keep you alive. John Watson is my strength, Molly, my conscience even, but you have always been my heart."

It's like time has stopped. She looks like she's holding her breath.

"When I needed to disappear after the rooftop battle with Moriarty, you alone knew my secret. You alone held my life in your hands. You alone knew where I was, not Mycroft, not John Watson. You."

"Because of my job. You needed the lab, not me, Sherlock," she whispers. I can see that she's trembling.

We are standing on opposite sides of the room. I take my first step towards her.

"Irene Adler, The Woman, intrigued my body in ways I only understood scientifically. I destroyed and then saved her, Molly. I cared about what happened to her but I never risked my own life for her as I would for you, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, Rosie or John Watson. Irene was lust," I say taking another step, "Mystique, biology. But you Molly. You are different."

"Please, Sherlock, don't," she whispers as a tear slides out of her eye.

"You who I have hurt on many occasions and humiliated. You who have never left despite my cruelty. I'm not going to pretend to understand everything about what's going on with me. I had shut down my emotion when Redbeard died. Too many things came gushing back when I found out the truth. There was healing that came with Eurus, devastation was wrought by the East Winds but healing was left in its wake, for my parents, for Mycroft and for me."

I'm one step away from her.

She looks up at me, she's really shivering now. She can barely hold on to the lily. There are more tears now.

"I've faked love before Molly Hooper. To catch a criminal, Sherlock Holmes will become whatever he needs to be, will do whatever it takes. But there is no criminal to catch this time, just a wrong to right."

I reach for her face and then smother her with my arms. She holds on to me with a grip that belies her small frame. She pulls away from the hug but doesn't leave my arms.

"You aren't the only one who meant those words on the phone. I'm frightened of where this will lead or what happens next but not enough to not want to find out. If you will give me a chance and time, Molly. A lot of time. I would like to be more than just your friend," I say.

Her eyes are beautiful. They sparkle when she smiles.

"Say it again, Sherlock. Like you mean it," she whispers.

"The time for words is finished after this," I say to her, "I love you Molly Hooper."

I lean in, with my stomach doing back flips and my head swimming. I bring my lips gently to hers. I have solved my second case of the day. I know what was wrong with me and I never want it to stop.


End file.
